Servitude
by alli-sun
Summary: /AU: late 1600s/ Accused of petty thievery, Ronald Weasley is shipped off to America, where in Virginia he is bought as an indentured servant to the Malfoys.
1. Chapter 1: Entrance

**Servitude**

**Summary** – [AU: late 1600s] Accused of petty thievery, Ronald Weasley is shipped off to America, where in Virginia he is bought as an indentured servant to the Malfoys.

**Warning** – SLASH. Don't like, don't read. Everyone is OOC. Historical inaccuracy may occur.

**Disowner – **I own neither history nor _Harry Potter_, just this measly fanfic of mine.

* * *

**Late Autumn 1672**

**Chapter 1 – Entrance**

* * *

There he is. Behind him stands the passing momentum of time. He is locked in time accompanied by his two week's worth of bread and salted cattle; in front of him stands the grey Atlantic sky, and there beside him a sea-worn ship, below him a sea-worn ship, and surrounding him a sea-worn ship and the sea. They'd gone so-and-so miles thus far, and such-and-such miles to go.

Ron gives his icy white hands a rare breath of warmth. His throat forces out a cough, it did not take long for his inexperienced lungs to stale from the cold sea breeze. The other men, a range of lusty young men like himself and old pirates, do not pity him, and refuse to share food. It should be, no it _must_ be further than two weeks now, and there are neither the colonies nor food. Ron preserves his body warmth under his thin shirt of cheesecloth, now longing for the crumbs and salted meat adorning Finnigan's plate, the same food he'd once detested.

So Finnigan sits there, a rogue Irish boy who cursed and swore like the other savage Irishmen onboard however remained pompous that he could read, even write a little. He reckoned this ability could earn him the forbidden prize of returning to his homeland. Then there is Dean Thomas, who hardly talks to a soul but himself, who Ron reckons is liable to go mad very easily. They are not quite friends yet, they simply sit there, grimly, three serious young men shipped off like the livestock they nibble upon.

Suddenly, in the midst of a violent vomit, Ron feels the ship halt. The lateness of the hour ought to be an obscenity, though Ron can no longer recite the list of sins. He remembers instead the girl he stayed with last, the tobacco he smoked last, the lad he'd scuffled with last. He and the rest are forced to file out, and are given some potatoes to feel energized and new clothing to feel clean. The ship plans to leave here and now, for it must bring another shipload of white slaves, and the captain worries the deadline will not be reached.

What soil is this? It smells not like English soil. What place is this? Whose walls are these? Ron squints in the dark and sees the others already clutching stolen liquor, and decides to drink with them. They all wander to sleep that night, and hope that tomorrow and the rest of their lives are all a dream.

They are lined up in chains, the women too. Another platform is given to Negro men, women, and children alike. Ron stares at their strong bodies and bold, fathomless eyes, and croaks his first words in days, "Ought they be better, yeh think? Why can't we be off the chain?"

Seamus shrugs. He did not like the English, and colonists even less, and regarded the wealthy families with a brute anger. "Lookit them greasy mustaches," He growls to his clasped hands, "they prob'ly eat pigs a daily."

Without modesty, they are all examined, and some unfortunate pretty folk are observed far too closely by these rotten planters. Ron feels them all conform into one, and it does not matter that Dean's hair is black and Seamus' is blond and his is a most hellish red, they are the same scrawny white men put up to scrutiny. They are checked for strong bone and muscle, and fingers and teeth are violated in their search. With half already gone and bought as servants, Seamus and Dean amongst them, Ron lashes out and punches a wrinkly old fellow, and his spectacles smashed into pieces.

Two men appeared, from nowhere it seems, and hold him tight with his shirt thrown off. Ron bites his bottom lip till it bleeds. They will whip him for this, and if they do not give him five or ten years more of debt to serve they will give him death. He holds his breath, but—

"Excuse me, sir."

Ron felt, as if sensing through the vile ground, that the man with his steady whip came to a standstill by order of a boy. The voice is clean, laced with wealth, and handsomely bold. Ron turns around and sees the back of a blond boy, his shoulders squared between the man and his captive. Amongst the old plantation owners, he is a strange sight with his expensive black gloves and black coat, and immediately Ron knows he is very rich, and therefore immediately Ron dislikes him.

There is silence, though Ron does not notice such until he hears the jingle of a small purse of gold, alive amongst the stilled air. The boy and the man exchange foreign words, Latin perhaps, and then the purse of gold is received. The boy walks away, and Ron is released.

"Alright, get on with it," The man snorted, his beard dotted with frozen liquor. Ron snarls a struggling breath, coughs, and runs to catch up with the boy.

How does he walk so quickly? His strut lasts like three strides of Ron's lengthy legs, and his boots make an authoritative rhythm against the pitiless winter earth. Ron feels a tad dizzy when his foot finally lands next to the boy, his new master.

"You got a carriage?"

"What do I look like?" The boy suddenly snapped. His eyes stayed straight ahead to the horizon, arrogant as a mule. "Am I a King? Am I his Majesty with enough gold to afford a nice cart to play around in? We are walking to the manor, servant. Hurry it up."

Ron scowled in realization, he had just traded in one bastard for another, and this one is shorter than he.

The manor is not large, not like those of England, but practically a palace compared to his previous lodgings. It is surrounded by plantations, now void of tobacco crop, and is now nothing more than fields of hard brown nothingness waiting for snow. Ron grudgingly entered the door, opening to a prestigious inside. He smells the affable scent of fresh food.

"Well?" The boy's voice, previously seeming fresh, is now blemished with the air of a spoiled child. Ron met his expectancy with a headstrong look of mock obedience.

"Speak whence spoken to," The boy ordered, "what do you think?"

Ron thinks the boy is pompous and thinks himself God's servant to have such luck, though Ron believes all rich people are damned from the start and will damn themselves to hell. Ron thinks the manor has china aplenty for him to smash, depending on where he will be standing when he loses his temper. Ron thinks it is a mistake, not to steal but merely getting caught.

In the end, he shrugs. "It's nice."

The boy gave a rather dainty guffaw. "You can do better than that," He smirked. "For that horrible piece of lying, you're not to have lunch. You'll watch me eat mine."

This is unusual, what happened to the rumors that they are put straight to work in the fields upon their purchase? Ron's tall frame takes strides towards the kitchen, and there is the warmest air he's met in months. He gratefully sits down and watches the boy take off his scarf, gloves, and coat while he chatters with the chef.

"Good, you made the bread, and with five teaspoons of sugar? It had better be real, or we'll use your salary to get some real sugar off the West Indies. Where's that little maid run off to? Oh? Well where's her little sister? Have her run to the cellar and fetch the Italian wine, the one my father favors. No, of course he's not to know. For goodness sake, more bacon!"

The boy stops in his ranting, perhaps to torture Ron's mind with images of good bread, sugar, wine, and bacon. He stops, and looks Ron up and down, his eyes settling on his thin shirt.

"This is a good one, aye Pettigrew?" The boy smirks again. His eyes are a devious pair—they are filled with the fog of the oceanic sky Ron remembers, like chimney spoke reaching its peaks yet still wishes to climb further. They continue to eye Ron. "He could last a while, through winter and spring and then I shall have another the coming summer. Perhaps even a Negro this time."

Pettigrew is a homely man, a bustling chef, a nervous colonist. His mousy eyes dart at the boy, then Ron, then back at his plating. "Your lunch, young master; Pansy should be up with the wine any moment."

"Excellent," The boy says, letting out a hiss aroused by his food, and with ravenous table manners he eats it quite precisely while eyeing Ron. "I suppose I am more Englishmen than you," He ponders, his frown a strange mixture of scorn and something else as he fingers the cheap fabric of Ron's shirt. "You're a shapely one, though…" and then ever so lightly his delicate fingers move downwards on Ron's abdomen. Ron stares at him, bewildered, his own confusion suffocating, he almost chokes when—

"Your wine, young master."

A young girl of nine or ten is standing with a bottle of wine in one hand and a tray eagerly brandishing two small glasses in the other. Her name is Pansy, Ron supposes, and she brandishes a rather unfortunate face to the world. Modestly, she pours the coppery red wine and slips it into the young master's hand. When the boy is distracted, Ron looks away and gives a good cough.

"How sickly are they keeping you boys?" The boy demanded, looking peeved by Ron's obvious disordered health.

Ron gave a drooping shrug. If he could only sit there, undisturbed by this shameless young master, perhaps he could remain in a state of peace. And if he could only have some tobacco and rum to go with it.

The boy is unhappy. "If you continue conducting yourself in that manner," He hissed, "you'll be sent right back to your whipping. I paid off your debt to that old codger who suffered your blow, but I may have it returned…and in that case what sort of person shall master you? A drunkard who tosses hot irons for amusement and works you to the bone from dawn to dusk and then some, that's who. So—"

"Young master? A letter for you," Pansy murmured from the doorway. The boy paused, and then stood up to read the letter elsewhere, however not without a fleeting expression of contempt. Ron sat there, still, blinking.

Then, from the stove, "Don't worry yourself to death, servant boy." Pettigrew had spoken, his voice a very odd one, anxious and high-pitched. He fixed Ron in a stern gaze. "The young master likes a power over his boys. He'll only be rid of you when you tire him."

This is too much. Ron steals a gulp of the oh-so-majestic Italian wine, which turns out to be far too sour for his tastes, and slams it on the table with a country boy's glare. "Don't say it," He growls, "Don't say it's what I think it is."

"I want to give you advice," Pettigrew scolded, "So that way you don't turn out like the last boy."

"What—"

"Pettigrew!" There is the boy again, his handsome features jutting out alarmingly. Sinking further and further into his natural habitat, his home, his palace, his tungsten eyes have a certain meanness to them. "Pettigrew, don't disturb me until you have _dire need to_, you hear me? I shall be working in my father's study." He stops to give Ron a glance, and then while rolling his eyes he adds, "and give this one an antidote for that disgusting cough."

He is gone now.

Ron settles down with hot tea. Pettigrew is too afraid to say anything without being disturbed now. He writes it all down instead. Ron cannot read, so he sneaks into the cellar and tucks it away.

* * *

**A/N – **Helloes again. I was deeply inspired for this one by a primary source document from the text _The American Spirit_. The white indentured servant James Revel wrote a poem about his experiences, and immediately I considered distorting it into a slash chappie. Gut, nein? Bon, non? Bona, minime? (I hope I spelled those right; from left to right it's German, French, and Latin).

Erm, so happy reading! Just a warning, don't expect especially happy-happy scenes in this fic! n-n


	2. Chapter 2: Death's Proximity

**Servitude**

**Summary** – [AU: late 1600s] Accused of petty thievery, Ronald Weasley is shipped off to America, where in Virginia he is bought as an indentured servant to the Malfoys.

**Warning** – SLASH. Don't like, don't read. Everyone is OOC. Historical inaccuracy may occur.

**Disowner – **I own neither history nor _Harry Potter_, just this measly fanfic of mine.

* * *

**Early Winter 1672**

**Chapter 2 – Death's Proximity**

* * *

The weather is warmer here in Virginia, Ron notices as time passes by. Day by day Pettigrew feeds him the warmth through an herbal tea, imported from the East Indies and quite expensive. He feels the unnatural heat of late autumn's pure turquoise sky, a contrast from England's bleak, chalcedony storms, wipe away his illness, so that by the first week's departure he has no cough and can stand straight with a clear head.

By the time a harsh bombardment of sleet came over their heads, Ron had gotten used to the young master. The boy's name is Draconis Malfoy, however Ron is to refer to him as Draco. Ron is used to Draco's obvious favor in pretty boys, and is used to the small touches and steely-eyed glances. That he decides he can deal with, for he never did give a damn about church whether it be Anglican or Protestant, or whatever else there was out there. He would sail to hell, and he does not give a damn. In the end, he decides, if this subtle play in sodomy can prevent him from breaking his back, then there is nothing to it.

A hand crawls up Ron's shirt one day. It travels up his spine in slow caresses, the firm fingers pressing provocatively against his stiffening back. Ron holds his breath and waits patiently for Draco to stop and carry on with his rich man's work.

Draco does not depart. He says, "Do you feel that?"

Yes, that hand is cold and merciless as ice. Ron wants to shake him off, but instead Draco presses his own body against Ron's back and ponders, "I feel cold; daily, nightly, constantly. So I expect you to be under my bedcovers these winter nights.

"I—" Ron stuttered disbelievingly, discomfort rising from the center of his throat once again.

"Argue," Draco warned haughtily, "And there shall be no meals for you this week."

He struts away, flaunting a new silk scarf. Ron thinks it distasteful, for it is flimsy and hardly protects against the cold. If only Draco had a better scarf, perhaps he would not need Ron as a bedmate.

This will be a frightening new experience. Ron chops a new batch of wood with aggression, a newfound hunger for violence, as he tries to shake off that feeling of discomfort. Should he be embarrassed for being treated in such a way? It is more of an infuriation that dwells inside, most definitely. What good can he find in himself now? What tears will this bring to his mother, if the poor woman ever found out?

Perhaps Draco saw Ron hacking the abused wood, for he made a special point during dinner. "My good friend is a librarian's son, quite able with his quill. He's written something rather interesting—about England's lack of care in who is shipped to the colonies as laborers. These indentured servants have transformed, from stark religious rebels to simple brutes. Thoughts, Ron?"

Ron is used to having to respond to Draco. "I wouldn't know," He said awkwardly to those questioning eyes, "I'ven't met other servants."

"You're excluding Pettigrew," Draco scolded all too friendly, "Pettigrew was a Quaker, I believe. His father denied Cromwell tax—you know who Cromwell is, the military man who substituted for Charles II in place of his deceased father—and so the family journeyed to Chesapeake before running into Indians. Pettigrew finished here, by whatever means he came across. He was no older than you or I."

Ron nodded slowly. What is the point to all this?

"On the other hand," Draco continued, "Pansy's forefathers were Christian Catholic for quite a burden of time. They might have been of some importance to the late King Henry VIII before he turned Protestant for that Boleyn witch. The Parkinson family could have died if they had not been exiled instead. They were lucky, many others faced prosecution. I suppose that's what happens when you get too attached to your whores."

This startled Ron. Looking up, he met that strange gaze of the young master's again. Draco eyed Ron steadily, examining the redhead's every curve and juncture once again, and then gave a little smirk.

"Enjoy the roast chicken while you can," Draco practically purred into his evening sip of wine.

It is a more dangerous situation that he'd fore thought. Ron tries to grab a chance to speak with Pettigrew, ready to plead for an explanation, an escape from this spoiled, needy child. He cannot—he is sent outside to chop more firewood, and is forbidden to come in contact with Pettigrew. Perhaps the cook knows too much.

That evening, it is like torture, like a slow burn, like a wavering breath struggling to be released. Ron stands, like a mannequin, next to a surprisingly homely looking four poster bed. The chamber is plainer than he'd imagined, with nothing especially rich about it except the curtains and hardwood floors. The walls are quiet and still. Draco is sitting under his bedcovers, gifting a small pamphlet with his scrutiny.

The young master is obnoxiously, spitefully, abnormally beautiful. The candle gives off the room's only living speck of light, and it casts a glow that sweeps Draco's pale skin a soft gold. He is all but lovely. His chin, by all means intelligent, moves with his eyes. Ron observes the chin tilt up sharply as Draco's eyes snap towards him.

"You're not tired yet?" He pondered, "I suppose you're not used to your new regime yet. Nevertheless, I still expect you to rise before the sun tomorrow."

Ron shrugged. Inside his head blood pounded into his ear drums. He must calm down. He must reason. Draco was nothing but a brainy little thing, an aristocrat, a child; not a pervert and not bawdy at all. He must remind himself this, and force this belief into his mind.

Slowly, Ron lowers himself on the bedcovers. Draco cannot help but roll his eyes and snatch Ron's arm, so that Ron's entire lanky, long-limbed body sprawls out over the bed.

"Try to enter this bed more gracefully in the near future," Draco snorts delicately. He does not flush like Ron does, 'round his freckles and burning at his ears. He must be so used to this…

Ron finally chokes out, "Why're you doin' this?"

"Beg your pardon."

"I—you…"

Ron's stomach began to churn. Draco was begging him to say it, he was sure of it. It was temptation. It was a dare. He couldn't keep it within himself—

"You's a bloody fag!"

That did it. Without a moments notice Draco has abandoned his reading and straddles Ron waist with a knife raised in the air. It shines its blunt grey, the line of its blade a seductive and thin crescent in the black night air. Ron gulps down his fear.

"Well, congratulations for holding your tongue this far," Draco smirked. "In the past they usually break out in vulgarities upon their arrival."

It must be done with. Ron stares into Draco's eyes, with his readiness to die and be done with. To be done with. Those striking, bold eyes shall be the last he sees of this world. He suddenly feels sorrow for his mother, alone with the one son who never betrayed her, Percy, and his father, jobless and hopeless. He asks that Ginny be forgiven in that lewd alehouse she works at, and that Fred, George, Bill, and Charlie all rest in piece. Slowly, slowly…

He's done it.

Suddenly, Ron feels the realization of a small pinch at the nape of his neck. The knife has torn a bit of skin at his collarbone, the dot of crimson a particularly loud outcast amongst his light, burgundy freckles. Ron squints upwards, confused.

"There's my first mark," Draco whispered, his voice soft, his voice all-knowing. "And there will be more to come, unless you mind your manners servant boy."

It is the night of their first kiss. Ron lies with his eyes shut tight, his chest constricted, his arms unwillingly wrapped around the young master to provide himself as a furnace, simply to make the young master warmth, perhaps even to give the illusion of happiness and love. He never wants to feel that close to death ever again.

Then, something soft presses against Ron's lips. Like a spell, like the breeze of an enchantment, it commands him to sleep, and so immediately Ron falls into deep, deep slumber.

* * *


	3. Chapter 3: Sinful Ownership

****

Servitude

**Summary** – [AU: late 1600s] Accused of petty thievery, Ronald Weasley is shipped off to America, where in Virginia he is bought as an indentured servant to the Malfoys.

**Warning** – SLASH. Don't like, don't read. Everyone is OOC. Historical inaccuracy may occur.

**Disowner – **I own neither history nor _Harry Potter_, just this measly fanfic of mine.

* * *

**Mid-Winter 1672**

**Chapter 3 – Sinful Ownership**

* * *

Ron cannot stop thinking of it—those dirty, crowded London streets. He cannot stop the thoughts of his former country, that old world of his, to spring up whenever he glances here and there. That accent, it is not one of an Englishman. The china porcelain collection, it is not properly English. The drinking water, the alley cats, the snow…this ax, it is held by an American. England is filling this land with those who have no true patriotic love for their mother country, and Ron's person agreed to that nature. Yet here he is, and he is hating American life.

That Draco Malfoy especially, England would never allow him.

Perhaps it is like what that Dean Thomas once said months ago. What is the point of seating yourself down in Virginia, where them aristocrats fill themselves with the illusion that they are continuing an English citizenship of some sort? They are ridiculously American and have the American greed for land and prosperity, yet think highly of themselves as protected by Parliament, and England's bill of rights. It is better off to be a New Englander, that way you venture from ardent Englishman to ardent American in one blow, and out with the muddled confusion.

Draco is out meeting with merchants. Ron runs errands. He thinks it useless to wear the woolen scarf Draco gave him as a small token of appreciation, for he has already dealt with the cold and now finds it agreeable. He allows Pansy to wear it instead. These Southern Americans, so much closer to the sun, have no immunity against the cold, Ron believes. Wealthy and bonded alike, they seem considerably weaker than the people of Northern England who go cold for months on end.

If the wealthy cannot brave the weather, how are Draco's mother and father constantly away?

They would not dare venture north; the cold would creep up a delicate lady's skirt.

They would not think of traveling south either. Where would they go? Ron has heard word of the savages before, with their brown skin and painted faces. And further south? It is nothing more than Spanish America.

Ron pauses a bit, his pondering like a downpour of ice. The temperature does not change, the colonists around him continue with their business in their little town, but Ron feels cold. Does Draco tell the truth? Are his parents vacationing—or dead? Ron has barely seen any other servant, only Pettigrew, Pansy, and himself. Where are the other servants, the other slaves? Or has Draco done away with them, as he did with his parents, with that silver blade?

Firmly, he fingers his wound, dead center at the nape of his neck. The blood has dried, been scraped, and has dried again. Now it is a spot of raw pink flesh. It matches the pink in his cheeks that the winter cold paints for him. Draco finds this appealing, he told him this very morning. Is that boy truly what he means to be?

Perhaps he's a flesh pirate. Perhaps he lives only to steal away lusty lad after another. Where would those other lost boys be?

Ron forgets that his thinking always leads him to anger. He grabs the salt Pettigrew needs and the goose Draco wants for dinner, conveniently forgetting to offer the shopkeeper his pence over the counter. He walks out stonily, but is stopped when a young lad, later finding it is the shopkeeper's nephew, wrestles him to the ground. It is a ghostly reminder of the scene in London, but this time there would be no other goddamned country they could send him to. Except jail, perhaps. And death.

As he fights, everything goes black…

* * *

Time passes. When Ron was so close to death under the hand of his master, Draco Malfoy, he learned to become touched by life. He feels sheets on his back, covers above him, and that woolen scarf wrapped 'round his neck as if it would like to hang him. He can breathe in the scent of the air and listen to the winter drifting over his head. He can feel familiar fingertip lightly tracing the line of his jaw, bestowing unto him a disturbingly soothing feeling. Many things transform under his touch, as if they comply with his revelation and become more vivid, just for him. Slowly, Ron opens his eyes.

"It's only midday," Draco delicately snorted from above. When Ron blinks wearily, he is able to see clearly. And it is indeed him; blond hair combed, shoulders squared, lips smirking like the devil. Let the devil be masked by golden locks, for Christ's sake. It is the best disguise a fallen angel could muster.

Ron does not want to believe he is back to this. A quick, condemned death would serve him more justice than this.

"I'd been expecting a luncheon with my father's associates when I had a frumpy old housewife pass by with news of a ginger-haired boy being beaten in the streets, like a petty English thievery, like a certain boy of mine that I know well."

Ron does not want to believe that. The remembrance of his fear clings to him. Perhaps Draco was meeting with cannibals and pirates and instead, he thinks rather ludicrously. He refuses to look his master in the eye. No, Draco, what are you really?

Draco leans down, his eyes suddenly hungry once again. But Ron does something unexpected—he lifts himself up with the brawn of his arms, he leans back into the bed frame and away from his master, and his eyes begin to flit towards Draco nervously.

Amusement; that is all Ron sees. Draco is amused, entertained, and refuses to chase. He commans instead, "You're ridiculous Ron, come here."

Oh, how Ron resents beautiful things now. Obediently, he leans back into Draco, who captures his lips so perfectly that he is convinced that there must be something wrong.

* * *

Dare he ask him?

"What is the matter, Ron?" Draco asks him in a rather bored manner, his attention focused on a book. Ron is still wary, his mind still brooding with dark thoughts of Draco's curiously independent way of living. He eyes the only two words he is able to decipher—The Bible.

"Nothing," Ron mutters. His body is less tense as it sides against Draco's, the body heat enclosing the two as the lid of a chest shuts and encloses its treasure. The Bible. _Please, my brothers, do not act wickedly_, it seemed to whisper to him.

Draco must feel rather drowsy; he tilts his head in such a way…that one might call it affectionate. Ron hasn't squirmed in weeks, yet now his chests constricts once more. He remains immobile, his warm body obediently lying next to Draco's, his hips curling delicately to meet his master's waist.

_You shall not lie with a male as one lies with a female; it is an abomination._

"Would you like for me to read aloud?" Draco asks, hazed by sleepy arrogance. The new candle wax burns bright, a loudness Ron cannot ignore. He nearly forgets himself, he nearly does not speak, but then he finds his tongue.

"A'right."

_If there is a man who lies with a male as those who lie with a woman, both of them have committed a detestable act; they shall surely be put to death._

"Honor your father and your mother so that your days may be long upon the land that the eternal, your god, gives you. You will not kill. You will not commit adultery. You will not steal…"

Ron narrows his eyes and begins contemplating.

Honoring: Ron may as well drown in his miserable guilt. He feels the guilt often in America, with its open streets and sky. Sometimes he feels he is the cause of England's entire misery and all of the Majestic country's crooks, like measles dotting one's skin.

Killing: perhaps, there is no way to keep record of how many men lie still bloodied on the ground, dead in abandonment after a brawl with him. Ron never kept track.

Adultery: how is he to know which girls are bound by the ring?

Stealing: it is the thing he'd once lived for. But the thing far from his reach now, because once his hand gets caught going for another rich man's pocket or into another farmer girl's basket, within days he will face punishment worse than this.

_Abomination…detestable…death…_

"You will not speak false testimony against your neighbor. You will not desire your neighbor's house, you will not desire your neighbor's wife, or his manservant, or his maidservant, or his ox, or his ass, or anything that is your neighbor's…"

_Death…_

_You will not steal…_

Like when glass shatters and time slows, the trance is broken and Ron stops when he realizes why Draco has paused. He did not notice before, but now he is acutely and painfully aware that he had buried his head into the crook of the blond youth's neck, brushing his lips up against seemingly untouchable skin.

Draco has skin like that of a doll's. It must be the loveliest of dolls Ron has ever encountered. To his horror, Ron desires Draco's cool, perfect porcelain skin. Ron slowly exhales on Draco's neck and backs away awkwardly. He began to shudder in fright, not at Draco's mercilessly cold eyes but at the sudden revelation. No, Ron has not stolen for so long. He will not be allowed to steal anything for the rest of his breathing days, because it would threaten his master, the true thief. Look at what Draco has stolen—his body, his work, his warmth, his mind, his soul, his life.

That night he receives another small gash by the blade. Never again must he forego something unless commanded to. Ashamed, he buries himself into sleep. If only, this time, he will not wake up.

* * *

A/N – Voila, another chapter. It's sort of ridiculous how long ago this was. We've currently reached the 20th century; my damn history course moves too fast. I'd also like to remind everyone that this is M rated, meaning that I will have more explicit chapters further on. n-n

Bible quotes credits:

h t t p : / / w w w . b i b l e . c a / s - h o m o = s i n . h t m

h t t p : / / b o o k s . g o o g l e . c o m / b o o k s ? i d = 3 P U - W q O 5 J R U C


	4. Chapter 4: Hide in Shame

**Servitude**

**Summary** – [AU: late 1600s] Accused of petty thievery, Ronald Weasley is shipped off to America, where in Virginia he is bought as an indentured servant to the Malfoys.

**Warning** – SLASH. Don't like, don't read. Everyone is OOC. Historical inaccuracy may occur.

**Disowner – **I own neither history nor _Harry Potter_, just this measly fanfic of mine.

* * *

**Mid-Winter 1672**

**Chapter 4 – Hide in Shame**

* * *

Through the depths of the night, where nothing but the moon shone and not a one dared to stir, there was a presence beside Ron who did indeed brazen enough to wake in the midst of darkness. Young Malfoy was shaking his shoulder gruffly. Upon remembering that the young man was his master, and that he owned a blade, Ron awoke immediately.

"My Father has just arrived," Draco began whispering urgently in his ear. Ron listened, completely dumb and only barely awake. "I had not expected him so soon. He will check upon me. Hide in your regular quarters, now!"

Ron only vaguely remembered the appearance of his own bed, before he'd begun to share Draco's chamber. Upon seeing Ron's confusion, Draco let out an aggravated sigh.

"Allow me to show you," Draco hissed into his ear, almost wantonly. The two bodies stumbled out of bed, their silhouettes both clearly so stalwart and male. His master was leading him to the wooden cupboard in the corner. Looking past the various shirts and trousers it stored, Ron could make out the outline of another door.

"Go!"

And Ron did go. He stumbled down a short corridor and into a petite little room. There lay his cot next to huddles of other sleeping bodies, all bound up in a room where they've slept in forever, and where Ron had slept thrice.

Barely awake, Ron obeyed Draco's orders and pummeled back into sleep.

* * *

Ron should have deduced that Draco would not want his company during breakfast, as had previously been regularly demanded, but he thought that he ought to check nevertheless. As he entered the kitchen, he spotted a man who resembled Draco but had a face which was a thousand times more severe. Pettigrew began frantically gesturing that he must be gone immediately, however Ron was too slow.

"Boy, come here," The man ordered. His voice was firm and confident, much like Draco's. But Draco's voice would always echo in his ears, night after night, because it carried Draco's delicacy and Draco's unforgiving character with it. Ron could not picture this man's voice ever having that effect.

He obeyed. Within seconds, he stood before the senior Malfoy. Draco was seated beside his father, his distant eyes cleverly swallowing the heated fury Ron could detect. Ron remained still as the tall, austere aristocrat surveyed him.

"I do not recall making this purchase," The man murmured. "He is an indentured lad?"

"Yes, Father," Draco replied coolly. They were both conversing with each other, and yet neither one of them dared take their eyes off Ron.

"And what does he do?"

"He chops firewood, runs errands, and cleans the property of wild animals and savages," Draco responded readily. "I understand, Father, that I could have requested one of your servants. However, this boy is strong and capable. His servitude was bought at a good price. Therefore I did not see reason to trouble you."

The last bit was a lie. Ron had been bought at an abnormally high price. He fully remembered how the bag jingled of gold.

The man spoke slowly, but surly. "A fine step toward independence, Draco, and a good choice of purchase. I trust this good judgment will not fail you when you take over the plantations."

"Hardly, Father."

"Good. You are dismissed, boy."

* * *

"He came merely to survey the land, nothing more. It is routine to him."

Ron said nothing in return. It was the following evening, one without intruders and set back to their customary bedroom setting. What peeved Ron particularly was that he could not bring himself to feel anger anymore. With each passing day, it was as if Draco was stealing another chunk of his dignity until he had nothing to be angered over altogether. Anger had been his greatest source of energy before, when he resided in London. Now that it had been taken away from him, Ron felt wholly Draco's servant, because now he could even control Ron's emotions.

"Remove your shirt, Ron." He did as he was told.

Draco seemed far more desperate that particular night than ever before. He had never insinuated that he wanted either of them to remove their clothing. But suddenly he was pulling Ron on top of him, parting his legs in such a way that allowed Ron to melt into him undisturbed.

"Kiss me," Draco said, "this instant."

It was not like his master to be rough. Not that Draco was particularly gentle, however his manners would follow him everywhere he went. At this very moment, however, Draco was practically hauling Ron onto him, demanding that he receive more. He had a certain agility to him that made Ron ache. Oh, this boy could hurt so many with such an angelic face.

"Listen to me, _servant_," Draco emerged from the kiss, growling, "You are lower than me, so much lower. You are the ground. You are filth—"

Ron simply stared at him, not knowing how he should respond. He continued to remain on top of Draco, completely vulnerable and half nude, as his master spewed out insults.

"You are lying to me," Draco had begun to whisper fervently, holding onto Ron with his pretty, white hands, "You cannot remain with me…"

His grip became painful. Ron did not want to fight back, but he wished to escape. He had begun to pull back, but Draco demanded, "Listen to me. I shall never love you, no matter how well you obey me."

As if Ron's frightened eyes were those of consent, Draco kissed him once again and turned them both on their sides. He reached for his blade, but instead of cutting Ron, he carefully engraved his own skin at the shoulder, so that Ron could watch. The cut was thin as lace and was corrupting Draco's skin with a bloodstain. But Ron was not ordered to clean it. He attempted to fall asleep to the fleshy scent of Draco's blood.

* * *

A/N – I have not updated this since FOREVER! It makes me miss U.S. History. T.T I haven't gotten my AP test results back yet…which makes me nervous.

An explanation of Draco's odd behavior will be found in the next chapter, which will hopefully not take me as long to update. x)


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